Now, there were two bogs in our Bailey prison wing. There was Jacko’s bog and there was Ching’s bog. Neither of these august gentlemen consorted with the likes of us and we respected them for that. At this particular drinking session we wouldn’t have consorted with us either. Kentucky had obviously been spiking my drink or poisoning my chicken spaghetti because sometime after the witching hour I started to get the gut-wrench cramps real bad. This was the moment of decision: Jacko’s bog or Ching’s bog. Fearing the wrath of Jacko I chose wisely, but I never got to thank Ching properly for cleaning up that pasta bowl. And I have never eaten Kentucky Chicken since that day.